The melancholy melodies softly croon and swoon me from the living room down the hall. I glance outside the window of my 'offfice', a room where one time long ago a child slept and a child dreamed and was alone with a child's thoughts. I see the nuthatches and titmice, and also the chickadees as they swoop down from the maples and oaks, and also from the hemlock we call "Socrates", to drink from the rainwater in the birdbath, and then to feast upon their morning sustenance of sunflower seeds. I can assure you, it is a more pleasant thing to watch than baseball players expectorating them from their perch upon the top seat of the dugout bench. And a woodpecker has arrived, with its red cap reminding me that Little David Eckstein's over-achieving, team-playing Cardinals were the perfect antidote for a baseball season beleaguered by the self absorption of Balco Barry and the soap opera world according to A-Rod. Those Cardinals were like those old Boston Celtic teams, against all odds, finding a way to win. And now the red-headed wood #### has begun to partake of a breakfast of suet, in preparation for the long winter to come.
We have been told that Red Auerbach has passed away. In fact, I think it is today that he is to be buried. The obituaries and tributes and eulogies will be many. And rightly so. Here is a remembrance.
I am 12. Finally tall enough and strong enough to shoot a basketball with enough force, accuracy, and distance to make the game fun. It is a beautiful game this thing called 'hoops'... a beautiful game to watch when it's played like Red's fast breaking Celtics of the 50's and 60's...or to play, whether it's an organized team, a pickup tilt at the park, or a one on one in the driveway at the basket that hangs off of the garage. And then, when your adversary has to go home for supper or just had something 'better' to do that day, there was, in this most beautiful game, still yourself, a hoop, and a ball. Oh, and one more thing, an imagination.
I was The Cooz dribbling behind my back making sure to avoid the pothole on the left and then tossing up the running one hander...or Sharpshooter Sharman delivering his automatic pop from the charity stripe...and The Gunner, Heinsohn line driving a hook across the middle...and Sam Jones banking a 15 to 20 foot jumper from the side off the 'glass'..."Yes!" (Thank you Marv Alpert. Living in northern New Jersey, it was very rare to be able to pick up Johnny Most from Boston.)
And I was Satch steering the softest, over-the-head, flat, set shot known to man. And Siggy bombing his high arcing version from 'pre-3 point land.' Seven foot-plus Mel Counts (the plus was the pompadour), black high tops glued to the floor, hitting one deep from the corner and Don Nelson double pumping and KC driving and in later years, 'The Garbage Man' Bailey Howell with the one handed push shot from the chest. But Hondo was my main man and the one who always came through in the clutch, making the running 'leaner" at the buzzer or the jumper at the top of the key on Red's old number 3 play. And Bill Russell...I even had the little high-kneed hook with either hand as well as the left handed foul shot complete with the exhale of momentary tension blown softly from my pursed lips. I may have even made a higher percentage of these free throws than the Bearded Wonder.
For all these pleasurable childhood moments and memories and the additional ones in my adulthood (Dave Cowens, JoJo White, The Bird Era, etc.), most all learned from those black, white and grey images from the Sunday afternoon TV narrated by Chris Schenkel and Jack Twyman, I sincerely thank you Arnold "Red" Auerbach, a man who saw basketball players as human beings and in only the winner's shade of Kelly Green.
Now, the sun is shinning through my office window. Warmer today, Indian Summer. There is an intermittent breeze. Most of the leaves are down now. Their glorious finale of colorul foliage is over in this neck of the woods. The dry, brown remains scatter along the damp earth and clutter against my newly planted junipers and the solitary yew. They will remain there for most of the winter, protecting, and keeping the young shrubs warm.
I believe many things, among them:
that the monuments should still be on the playing field, 460 feet from home plate...
that the most exciting play in baseball is the race between ball and man, the inside the park home run...
that for fielding alone, Clete Boyer is right there with Brooks and Nettles...
that Yankee Stadium should stand forever...
that Number 7 walking to the plate was supernatural. ..
and that there was nothing better than to shag fly balls with your best friends after supper on a summer evening
